


Flesh Wound

by fallingforcas



Series: Husband's n' shit [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Protective Ian Gallagher, Protectiveness, Shooting, Short & Sweet, Terry is a dick, but not too hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: #84 "I've got you."Mickey gets shot and is a total drama queen
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Husband's n' shit [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643434
Comments: 2
Kudos: 175





	Flesh Wound

The sunset washing over the Chicago skyline, all mixtures and splashes of ambient yellows and reds. Mickey and Ian are walking down the quiet street, playfully pushing and shoving at each-other, giggling and laughing in the wake of their honeymoon. (A some-what fancy hotel and a shit load of raunchy sex.) It’s a blissful moment; filled with silent sweet nothings, touches of innocence and adoration for each other, and they allowed the descending shower of love to wash over them. 

Mickey scrambles for a smoke from his half-empty pack, dodging Ian’s prodding fingers against his ticklish sides, “Fuck off, Gallagher.” 

Ian giggles breathlessly, a sound that Mickey would never grow tired of hearing. He snatches the smoke from Mickey’s fingers, too his visible displeasure, and appreciates the relaxation felt once he inhaled and exhaled lightly. Mickey grabs it back, smiling in awe towards his newly wedded husband. Each inhale of smoke floated around them as their pace lessened, their glances caught between them, and Mickey hums with adoration for this moment. 

This was it. 

This was _all_ they had been waiting for; the pain, the grief, Mickey’s inability to express himself, and countless trips to various institutions, was for this. 

This moment. 

Ian and Mickey were finally _happy._

Just as life had always done, a giant pain in their fucking ass, that happiness was cut short.

Mickey’s the first to hear it, before he instantaneously felt it. Ian had struggled to shield him, throwing himself over Mickey like a goddamn bodyguard, but even with all those gangly limbs and hard-rock abs, the bullet fired from Terry’s gun still managed to lodge itself into Mickey’s leg. Once Ian realises the abundance of the situation, the cold sensation of blood sticking to the arm that had once shielded Mickey, he leans up in a frantic state of shock. 

As Terry’s car zooms off into the distance, horn blaring and yelling echoing through the vastness of the street, Mickey’s spitting out profanities in pain, hand clenching to his rest leg that was furiously leaking with blood. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” 

Just as he had been the first time, he had witnessed Mickey being shot, back when they fucked lousily in the back of Kash’s store, Ian was yet again unable to fathom how to address such a situation. All his EMT training had been suddenly erased from his memory, his arms flailing at his sides, and his breathing begin to heighten with panic. 

“Jesus, Mick.” He clutches to Mickey’s leg, his other hand reaching up to Mickey’s twisted face. He examines the wound, barely making it out with all the blood bubbling up from Mickey’s jeans, and admits loudly, “Your leg is bleeding. Like A lot. We need to get you to a hospital.” 

Mickey’s head darts up, angrily, his body tensing with each wave of pain that filtered through his body. Even when bleeding out into the street, he’d still have enough strength to call Ian out on his idiotic bullshit. “Oh really? You fuckin’ think?” He groans out loudly in agony, “I hadn’t noticed that half of my goddamn blood was flowing out my fuckin’ leg. Thanks for letting me know, Gallagher.” 

Ian rolls his eyes, lifting Mickey’s stiffened torso up against him, “It’s just a flesh wound, Mick.” 

For a second, Mickey lets his thug-like bravado slip, “Fuck, man. This kills like a bitch—” 

Ian quickly dials for an ambulance; relaying the situation at hand, trying to drown out Mickey’s wails of anger and bitter yelling towards the operator. As soon as he had the confirmation that their estimated arrival would been atleast three minutes, Ian focuses his attention back to his injured husband. If anything, Mickey was making it into an even bigger drama, just to get Ian to coo him and reassure him with gentle words. 

Ian presses his hand against Mickey’s, adding pressure to the over-flowing wound. Mickey’s yelling yet again, professing he’s intention to kill Terry as soon as he could, and Ian’s hopelessly trying to calm him, looking out for the ambulance that good give Mickey something to shut him up. 

Mickey’s breathing starts to calm a little, and Ian wraps his arms around him, “I’ve got you.” 

Through the excruciating pain, Mickey doesn’t hear Ian. With a worried stare, he lifts his hand away from the bullet hole, a mixture of damaged flesh and pools of blood before him. He grunts, letting his head fall against Ian’s chest. “This is fuckin’ bad, Ian. You said it was a fuckin’ flesh wound?!” 

Ian feels a little guilty, but he couldn’t tell Mickey the verity of the situation because he was already under distress to the maximum levels. Anymore and Mickey was at the verge of his head exploding. Ian tries to lighten the conversation, pleading that that goddamn ambulance would turn up, “Well, in my defence the flesh _was_ wounded.” 

“Fuck you, Gallagher.” Mickey spits, moaning out in pain once more. “It’s gone all the fuckin’ way in.” 

Fortunately for Ian, the ambulance then arrived. Even with a shot out leg, Ian was convinced Mickey could, and _would_ , kick his ass right there. He winces as Mickey’s hauled up onto a stretcher, mainly for Mickey’s stark and aggressive attitude to the paramedics; thrashing around the stretcher like a goddamn child. Obviously, Ian felt sick to his stomach that someone, especially Terry, had hurt Mickey, and he loved his shit-talking and aggressive little Pitbull of a husband, but right now Mickey was acting like a fuckin’ drama queen. 

Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh. Mickey had been shot. And it looked pretty bad. 

Not long after the street showdown, and Mickey’s inability to accept any helpful treatment from hospital staff which resulted in his heavy sedation, Ian finds himself amused with his arms crossed, staring down a giggling Mickey Milkovich. 

“You enjoying yourself there, Mick?” 

Mickey’s face softens as he attempts to frown lazily. He doesn’t respond, a little embarrassed but still high off his pain medication. Glaring towards the blanket tightly wrapped around him, he moans clumsily, “Why the fuck are people putting blanket’s on me all the goddamn time?” 

Ian sighs. Yep, even on medication and with a bandaged injured leg, Mickey was still a drama queen. 

Perching at the end of the bed, slapping Mickey’s injured thigh, Ian laughs, “You’re in shock, Mick.” 

Mickey shoots him a disgruntled look, unable to tear himself through the layers of blankets that covered his body. Ian watches amused, his heart tingly a little bit at the sight, and tries to hide his laughter from the Mickey’s frustrated attitude. 

Failing to release himself, Mickey glares, “That doesn’t mean I need a fuckin’ blanket.” He nudges Ian with his foot, “What I fuckin’ need, Gallagher, is a drink.” 

“Nope.” Ian rejects Mickey’s suggestion sternly. 

Mickey doesn’t care for Ian’s response, fumbling around himself, as he yells out into the room. “Hey! Would someone _kindly_ direct me to the closet fuckin’ bar?” 

That’s the Mickey Ian had fell in love with. Ian didn’t regret his decision at all. 

He _did_ regret dragging Mickey to the closest bar, still pumped up on pain medication and enjoyment from Ian wheeling him around in a wheelchair. 


End file.
